


The Fall

by fluttermoth



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack, Crossover, Drabble, Implied Relationships, Language Barrier, Multi, Murder Happy Dragonborn, Undecided Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:38:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5238185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluttermoth/pseuds/fluttermoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lumen is the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, and a very reluctant Dragonborn. She is also the most unlucky elf to have ever existed. If being forced to face Alduin wasn't proof enough of that, then being sent to Thedas most certainly is.</p><p>Note: This has been abandoned in lieu of writing a better (longer) crossover fic. If you are interested in Lumen's adventures in Thedas, please read Salt The Earth. Thank you!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had this in my head and I needed to get it out. I really like the idea that the Inquisitor could be the Dragonborn, considering the poor Dragonborn is always getting thrust into impossible situations. So here's my take on what would happen if Lumen were pulled through the Breach. It does not go well.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! And let me know what you think. :)

The air is thick with smoke and debris, and heavy with the screams of the frightened and dying. Solas closes his eyes, hoping to shut out the disturbing visions for a moment. The mingled scents of blood and fear sting at his sensitive nose. His skin is crawling with discomfort from being so close to the Templars and their own bastardized rendition of magic. But more disturbing than the presence of the Templars is the Breach in the Veil. Magic issues forth like water from a geyser, and he knows it is only a matter of time before _more_ than just magic comes through.

A cry from one of the hundreds of wounded pilgrims snaps him out of his brooding and brings him back to the present moment. He had offered his aid to the human Seeker and her Commander, and he will not run away like some fickle youth who cannot stomach the horrors of war.

A sizzle of magic tears through the air with a deafening boom that shakes the ground, and something-- no, _someone_ falls from the breach. He narrows his eyes, but he is too far to see anything other than flailing limbs, hair whipping in the wind, and a green light emitting from their left hand. The familiar caress of Fade magic tugs at his soul, and he knows without a doubt that this one is different. This one, who’s been touched by _his magic_ , will survive. But for how long?

He is not the only one who notices the new arrival. The Seeker and the Commander have rallied their troops and are moving closer. They are ready to blame this entire fiasco on the poor fool who just tumbled from the Fade, and he cannot fault them for that. They need an enemy. They need someone to blame for all this carnage.

Solas moves closer to get a better look, and he is surprised to see that the being who fell from the fade is an elf. But she is no normal elf. She is too tall to be an elf of Thedas. The angles of her face are all wrong, and her eyes are so strange and otherworldly. More strange than her alien features is the armor she’s wearing, which is covered in spikes and thrumming with a dark magic that is unknown to him.

The elf is confused, but she is not afraid, and she attempts to speak to the Commander in a strange, lilting language Solas has never heard before.

“Speak the common tongue, elf!” he snaps. “Now is not the time for games!”

The elf rolls her eyes and speaks again, but her foreign language only serves to rile the men and women who stand behind the Commander. They are all eagerly awaiting an order to attack. They do not notice how pained she looks whenever her Fade-touched hand sparks with out-of-control magic. They do not notice how utterly _lost_ she is.

Solas does not know what kind of elf she is, but only a fool would think she is from Thedas.

Things go from bad to worse when the Commander holds out a pair of wrist cuffs and orders two of his men to approach her. Her face twists in disgust when she looks at the cuffs, and she shouts something while pointing to the Breach. While Solas knows she is likely trying to explain her situation, the humans-- the angry, fearful, _stupid_ humans, are not interested in what she’s trying to communicate. Perhaps, if she were human, they would be more willing to work with her. 

“Bind her!” the Commander orders. 

Solas does not have a name for what happens next. The elf shouts-- _roars_ \-- three words that send a shockwave tearing through the air. The soldiers farthest from her fall down, while those closest to her go flying backwards. Solas is far enough away that he merely stumbles back a few paces before regaining his balance. But the fact that he is still on his feet does little to quell the anxiety crawling up his spine. What kind of power is this? It is not of the Fade. It seems to be a power completely of her own.

The Templars launch into action because they think she is a mage, but the sticky, sapping power of the Templar’s smite does not phase her. If anything, it only serves to fuel the storm of her fury.

Truly, Solas cannot call what he sees in the elf ‘anger’. Only a fool would think her angry or afraid. She is gripped with an inhuman rage, the likes of which these soldiers have never seen before. Her eyes are blazing and her teeth are bared as she uses her strange powers to rip through the crowd of soldiers. The carnage caused by the Breach is nothing compared to the slaughter brought about by the strange elf.

Is there nothing her voice cannot bend to her will? She commands the wind, fire, and even time itself by uttering a few words. What world could have created such a creature? What mad gods saw fit to bestow this kind of power on someone so vicious?

He notices the elf staring right at him, and shouting at him in her strange language. How he wishes he could understand her. Perhaps he could reason with her. Calm her down and make her understand that he only wishes to help. But that is a foolish line of thought that he will not entertain, because reason cannot reach her now. Especially not after the humans tried to take her captive. 

Solas takes a breath to steady himself. There is no other option but to fight. She must be dealt with. She must be erased from Thedas before she destroys everything he is working so hard to achieve. He lifts his staff, which blazes with light as he focuses his magic through it. “Ir abelas,” he says solemnly. “This was a mistake.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't be the only one who made the connection between Oblivion and Inquisition. You've got gates to a creepy, demon-filled world opening up all over the place, and your character is the only one who can close them. So, it seems reasonable that someone from Tamriel might make the connection. I don't know what's worse - the Fade or the Deadlands (Mehrunes Dagon's realm).
> 
> Lumen's going to have a hard time with Solas. He's going to trigger her "It's a Thalmor! KILL IT!" instinct more than once. XD

Lumen stares down at her shackled hands. She’s cold and afraid, and she doesn’t know where she is or what these people want from her. No one here speaks basic Tamrielic, nor are they speaking Bosmeris or Ayleidoon. Not that anyone in Skyrim ever uttered a word of Ayleidoon… But she would at least _recognize_ it.

Ah, well. It’s not as if she needs to understand them to know that they all hate her. They all seem to think she’s responsible for a crime she doesn’t remember committing. She wishes she could remember what happened. She doesn’t recall how she got to this strange place, only that she’s certain Hermaeus Mora has _something_ to do with it. Whenever she dreams, she dreams of darkness, and the only light within the darkness is in the form of a hundred, unblinking eyes. Not to mention, the sickly green light emitting from the mark on her hand reminds her of the bile green skies of Apocrypha. Who else could it be, if not Mora?

She so desperately wants to go home. How long can the Dark Brotherhood last without a Listener to lead them to contracts? How long can Cicero wait for the Listener to return? How long can Nazir deal with the little jester before he strangles him?

Her worries are interrupted when the cell door creaks open, and in steps the elf that’s been seeing to her marked hand. Lumen cannot tell if he’s a Bosmer or an Altmer-- although she suspects he’s probably a half-breed. He’s too tall and too pale to be a Bosmer, and he’s short compared to most of the Altmer she’s encountered. He certainly holds himself like an Altmer, and that is enough to make her wary of him.

Despite her distrust of the elf, she has come to rely on him. He is the only one here who does not immediately glare at her, or snap at her. He speaks in a calm, soothing voice, and he eases the pain of the mark when it flares. Of course, that’s _exactly_ what a Thalmor interrogator would do. Gain her trust, only to use it against her when the time is right.

He is an odd one, though. Always trying various spells out on her mark. Sometimes they relieve the pain, and other times they do nothing at all. But today he seems more interested in her face, which is _concerning_ , to say the least. She flinches when he reaches for her. She’s been harmed by magic too many times to be fully comfortable with it being so close to her face. But her fear does not deter him, and he reaches for her again, grabbing the sides of her head and casting a spell on her before she can pull away.

Lumen shivers at the odd sensation. The cool wash of magic flows over her skin and caresses her mind. It almost feels like the first hit of skooma-- that wonderful numbness that chills her face and slows her thoughts. And just like skooma, the nice feeling fades all too quickly, leaving her craving another taste.

“I apologize for frightening you,” he says.

“What was-- _wait_ \--” she stammers. “So you _can_ speak Tamrielic! You people have been screwing with me the whole time!”

“I assure you, I am not speaking _Tamrielic_ , nor have I been _screwing_ with you,” he says, chuckling softly at her outrage. “I found a Spirit of Understanding in the Fade, and it taught me the spell that I used on you. That is the reason we are able to communicate now.”

_“Oh, goodie. He's completely insane.”_ Lumen stares up at the crazed elf, hoping he proves to be useful now that they can speak. “Um, well, would you mind telling your people that I haven’t done anything wrong, and that I would like to go home and forget any of this ever happened?”

“Would that I could,” he says apologetically. “I do not have any authority here.”

Lumen sighs. Of course he isn’t the one in charge. That would be too easy, and her life has _never_ been easy. Knowing her luck, the cranky Imperial woman is probably the one in charge. It’s either her, or the red-haired Breton who moves like an assassin. Unfortunately, those two don’t seem to like her much.

“My name is Solas, by the way,” he says, interrupting her brooding. “And you are?”

“Lumen.”

“And where are you from, Lumen?”

“You _know_ I’m from Skyrim,” she snaps. “Dawnstar, to be specific.”

“I have not heard of either of these places,” he says, sounding utterly fascinated.

She wants to scream at him. He _has_ to know what Skyrim is! “Where am I?” she asks, terrified of the answer.

“We’re in a town called Haven, it’s where the conclave was being held.”

“ _Where_ is Haven?”

“In Ferelden,” he says calmly. He doesn’t look at her like she’s insane, even though she’s starting to feel like she’s completely lost her grip on reality. “You’ve never heard of Ferelden, have you?”

“No,” she whispers. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Then I doubt you know what Thedas is, either,” he says, his fingers toying with his wolf bone amulet. “I have sufficient reason to believe that the Breach, or the power that caused it, somehow pulled you from another place and time, and brought you here. Although, I do not know how or why. I was hoping you might have some answers for me.”

“I wish I did,” she admits. “But I don’t remember anything. One moment, I’m at home, and in the next… I’m _here_ , and I can’t understand a word anyone is saying, and I have this horrible _thing_ on my hand!”

“Ah, so you do not remember what happened when you fell through the Breach?”

“My only memories are of this cell,” she says. “And of that Imperial woman yelling at me a lot.”

“You came through shortly after the explosion happened. You were understandably distraught and you reacted quite violently.” He watches her carefully, as if he’s looking for any sign of recognition-- or deception. “You managed to wound many soldiers, and you killed more than a few. There’s been talk of executing you, but…” he reaches for her marked hand, the magic within flaring at his touch. “You bear the mark, and even though it is killing you, it is the only reason you are still alive now.”

Lumen swallows hard, terrified of what may happen to her. “I don’t know about any explosions, and I don’t remember attacking soldiers,” she says, her voice wavering. “You have to believe me.”

“I am not the one you need to convince,” Solas says as he stands. “I will let Cassandra know the spell worked, and I will urge her to listen to you. I can do no more than that.”

Her mind is reeling. She has no idea what the Breach is or what it does, but it almost sounds like an Oblivion gate. The entire scenario would seem unbelievable if she hadn’t read about the Oblivion Crisis when she was a child. Gates _do_ sometimes open, and she was just unlucky enough to be sucked into one. It figures that it would happen to her. The dragon's blood has always been more of a curse than a blessing, and she’s willing to bet that this has something to do with the fact that she’s Dragonborn.

Maybe it’s the only way she survived coming through in the first place.


	3. Chapter 3

The Breach at Haven is closed-- _kind of_. Lumen can still see it in the sky, and there’s always news of Rifts opening up all across the land, but at least the big one has stopped growing. By some strange twist of fate, the people of Haven declared her a hero after she sealed the Breach. They’d somehow forgotten about the soldiers she supposedly killed when she came through. Which is an event she still has no recollection of. Cassandra and Cullen have not forgotten about it, however, and have resolved to keep an uncomfortably close eye on her.

Unfortunately, her small act of heroism now meant she had a fancy title and a slew of responsibilities that she never asked for. At least she wasn’t sent back to the prison cell afterwards. She was given a little house on the edge of the town, and she is grateful for the privacy it affords her. Not that she needs any privacy. A contract hasn’t touched her hands in weeks, and the Night Mother’s soothing voice is so far away… 

She misses her family of assassins more than she ever thought possible. It’s so unbearably lonely without Cicero’s constant company. Sometimes she wishes he would have come through the Breach with her, just because all this weirdness would somehow be bearable with him by her side. He would also laugh himself sick if he knew that the people of this world saw her as an agent of their god. It’s not the first time something like this has happened. The Listener of the Night Mother is an agent of Sithis, after all. But that makes so much more sense. This Maker and Andraste are a bit too altruistic for her tastes.

A shout from one of the nearby soldiers shakes Lumen from her thoughts, and she looks up at the group of new recruits being addressed by Cullen. The Commander has been very polite to her since the grievous ‘misunderstanding’ of their first encounter. But she can tell the man doesn’t entirely trust her, and she doesn’t fault him for it. If anything, she respects him for keeping her at arm's length.

Cassandra is wary of her as well, but she is a source of stability for Lumen. This world is utterly _insane_ , but Cassandra is calm, collected, and tough as nails. Whenever Lumen leaves Haven, Cassandra is with her, as are Solas and Varric. She’d be dead ten times over if it weren’t for them.

She likes Varric. He tells her stories in exchange for her own, and he genuinely seems to enjoy whatever she’s got to say. He also plies her with alcohol to get her to loosen her tongue, but she doesn’t mind. It’s nice to have someone friendly to talk to until the wee hours of the morning. It’s nice to have a friend.

Solas makes her nervous, and she doubts she will ever be able to trust him. He may dress in a humble manner, but he has the air of one who has known a life of luxury. But when she questioned him about his past, he claimed to be from a small village, and that he spent most of his time exploring ruins. It’s a lie. She _knows_ it’s a lie. But she is content to allow him his secrets as long as he offers her the same kindness.

More would be joining her eventually. She’s been given names and locations of interested parties and people who might help their cause. And this entire Inquisition is _their_ cause, not hers. But she understands that she needs to work with these people and fix their world if she wants to return to hers. She can play the long game if she has to.

A flicker of movement catches her attention, and she turns to see Solas approaching her. She instinctively wants to cross her arms and tense her muscles, preparing for some kind of altercation. He looks so much like the Thalmor that she hates. But she has to remind herself that he is not a Thalmor. He’s not even Altmer. She has to remember that it’s the _humans_ who have the upper hand in this world.

“Do you have a moment?” he asks.

“I have a seemingly endless amount,” she says vaguely. “What is it?”

“I wish to know more about your power,” he says without hesitation. “I suspect you still don’t remember what happened when you came through the Breach, but you used it then. You shouted words, and the physical world obeyed.”

“It’s called Shouting,” she says, uncertain if explaining any of this is a good idea. “When I Shout, I am speaking the dragon language.”

“Dragons cannot speak.”

“Not in _your_ world,” she says. “They do in mine, and their words have power.”

“Then why is it that you can speak their language?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. 

“Because I was born with the natural ability to do so,” she explains, already tired of this conversation. She _hates_ talking about herself. “It can be learned, though. But where it takes me seconds to learn a new word, it takes most people years, even decades, to be able to speak a simple phrase.”

“So it can be learned?” he asks, suddenly more interested then before. “I find it interesting that this ability does not draw from the Fade. It is clearly a type of magic, but I do not understand where your power comes from.”

“ _Please_ don’t call it magic. I’ve seen what the people here do to mages.” Lumen grimaces, recalling the first time she ever encountered a Tranquil. She cannot pretend to be any better when she fuels her own power by absorbing the souls of dragons. But at least they are _dead_. They are not some hollow shell with no will of their own. “As for where my power comes from… Well, I cannot say.”

“You cannot? Or will not?”

“I…” she hesitates. Telling him the secret of her power may very well get her labeled as a monster. Nice people don’t steal souls, and while she’s decidedly _not_ a nice person, she is trying to masquerade as one for the time being. “I’ve been sworn to secrecy on the matter,” she says, hoping he’ll buy her lie.

The corner of his mouth quirks upwards. “You are a terrible liar,” he says, sounding more amused than annoyed. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Many people,” she says, stifling a laugh. “I’ll try to get better at it.”

“Perhaps one day you will trust me enough to tell me the source of your power,” Solas says, all amusement gone. “I am only curious, Herald. I mean you no harm.”

With that, he turns on his heel and walks away from her. Lumen watches him go, looking for any sign of anger at being denied. The truth is that she doesn’t trust anyone in this world, and she doubts she’ll trust any of them enough to reveal the source of her power. They won’t need her once the Rifts have been sealed up, and once her usefulness has run out, it’s only a matter of time before they all turn on the soul-eating elf.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Listener of the Dark Brotherhood is the worst choice for a 'savior' of anything. Just sayin'.

He calls her “Stomy” because “Tempest” doesn’t have as nice of a ring to it. 

Lumen assumes the name comes from the power of her Voice, and he is content to let her believe that. Varric doesn’t want to tell her the true meaning behind the nickname. Because that knowledge is for him and him alone. (Also, she might take offense and stab him in his sleep. He isn’t stupid.) But she _is_ a storm. She is like the many storms that swept over Kirkwall in the rainy season. Violent, seething, and perfectly capable of obliterating everything in her path.

She reminds him of Fenris, in a way. They would probably get along very well.

Varric doesn’t truly understand what kind of woman Stormy is until they come across a group of Red Templars in the Hinterlands. They’ve encountered multiple groups of Templars during their time there, and they have been ambushed _twice_. It is during the second abush that she decides she’s had enough.

There are two Templars left alive after the initial battle; the warrior is severely wounded, while the archer decides surrendering is a safer bet than running. They aren’t as corrupted as the rest of the Templars they’ve faced. Still more human than lyrium addled monster.

The Herald approaches the injured warrior, and for a brief, foolish moment, Varric wonders if she means to help him. But rather than help, she grabs him by his hair, roughly yanks him into a sitting position, and puts a knife to his throat. _That_ gets the attention of his unharmed comrade, who looks like he’s seriously regretting his life choices.

“Where are the others?” she asks, her voice firm, but calmer than he’s ever heard it. “And don’t play stupid. Your friend's life is in your hands.”

He can hear Cassandra suck in a sharp breath between her teeth. She doesn’t necessarily agree with this interrogation tactic, but she understands it. Chuckles is as unreadable as ever. He seems perfectly content with rifling through the pockets of the fallen Templars, rather than pay attention to what his fellow elf is doing. But, then again, perhaps the death of a human doesn’t bother him as much as it bothers Varric and the Seeker.

“I-- I don’t--”

“Wrong answer.” She lets go of the warrior’s hair only to grab at his chin and yank his head backwards. The blade pierces his flesh, and a stream of blood trickles from the wound. “I don’t think you understand. I _want_ to kill him. I want to kill _you_. Don’t you want to convince me to do otherwise?”

“Hafter’s woods!” the archer gasps. “The others are just outside of Hafter’s woods!”

“Thank you,” she sing-song’s, right before she slits the warrior’s throat with one hand, and throws a dagger with the other. The blade slams into the archer’s eye socket with a wet thud, killing him instantly.

There is a part of Varric that wants to file this away to use in one of his serials, and there is another part that just wants to drink this memory from existence.

“ _Herald_ ,” Cassandra hisses, finally snapping out of her stupor. “That was unnecessary! They surrendered!”

“They were corrupted by the red lyrium, Cassandra,” comes Solas’ calm voice. “They would have died, anyway. A quick death is far more kind than a slow, lingering one.”

“I didn’t kill them to be kind,” Stormy snaps, as if ‘kind’ is the worst thing she’s ever been called. “I killed them because they are of no use to us. If I let them go, then they’ll warn the others. If we take them hostage, then we waste a bunch of magic and healing potions on two men that were going to die anyway.”

Varric wonders if she uses this kind of logic in her own world, or if she only views the people of Thedas as disposable because they aren’t as real to her. This isn’t her world, and she has no love for it. She is not completely devoid of emotion, though. He’s broken through her defenses and met the elf hidden behind the layers of spiky armor, just as he did with Fenris. And just like Fenris, she throws up an emotional barricade whenever the others are around.

“There is no harm in showing a little compassion,” Cassandra says, her voice clipped in annoyance. 

“We have limited healers, and I will not waste their time and resources on Red Templars when we have Inquisition soldiers and refugees who need it more.”

“It’s getting late,” Solas says, hoping to steer Cassandra and Lumen away from an argument that could possibly go on for days. “Shall we return to camp?”

“Redcliff is closer,” Stormy says, retrieving her dagger from the fallen Templar. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I wouldn’t mind spending the night in a real bed.”

No one can find reason to fault the Herald for that, and so they all make their way towards Redcliff. It is an uneventful journey, as there are no wayward mages or rogue Templars to block their path. It is also unbearably quiet. Chuckles is an elf of few words unless you ask him about the Fade, and Varric is sick of the Fade. The Seeker is too annoyed to bother with idle conversation, nor does she have the patience for it. And Stormy, well…

Killing two unarmed men in quick succession seems to have lifted her mood. She is walking ahead of the group, humming a catchy tune, and looking more happy than he’s ever seen her before. It’s unnerving, to say the least, and Varric is very rarely unnerved.

Perhaps “Killer” is a more fitting name...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This shit is just too weird for poor Varric.


	5. Chapter 5

Lumen does not know how much longer she can last. She is tense. Fraying at the edges and threatening to unravel at the seams. She is _lonely_. Starved of the Keeper’s affection and of Mother’s soothing croon. How much longer could she go on without them? How much longer will they last without her? Is she truly as irreplaceable as Cicero claims? Or are those only the saccharine whispers of a desperate madman? Regardless, one fact remains-- she needs _them_. 

Haven is a busy place. Full of soldiers and apostates, and everyone else who believes in the Inquisition's cause. She is almost always surrounded by people. But her advisors and her comrades can do very little to quell the overwhelming loneliness that overtakes her every night when she returns to her little house. She has no one to warm her bed. No one to soften the edges of her madness, and no one to be herself with. 

She has no one to talk to about that draconic need that drives her to dominate and destroy. That need that drove her to the Dark Brotherhood and to the arms of the Night Mother. The need to kill-- to spill blood and to revel in it. She is tired of pretending she’s just like everyone else. It would be nice to have a place where she could be herself for a while.

She wonders if her newest companions also have histories that are as littered with bodies as her own. But she doubts it. Blackwall is a hero, Sera is a prankster, and The Iron Bull-- well, she isn’t sure what to make of him. The Lady Vivienne definitely has a few skeletons in her well-kept closet, but they probably have more to do with an embarrassing fashion faux pas rather than murder. 

Lumen stares at the door to her little, wooden house, unable to step inside. The silence inside is too much to bear, and she is almost tempted to turn around and return to the tavern. She could spend her night drinking with Sera and Varric. She could tell stories and sing stupid tavern songs, and do whatever else it is that people do in order to forget how miserable their lives truly are.

“You can open and close the Fade with a wave of your hand, but a simple door stops you in your tracks? _Really_ , Herald.”

“Hello, Dorian,” she says, turning around and offering him a slight smile. 

“Lumen,” he says, offering her a charming smile. “Something wrong, dear? Or do you normally get into staring contests with inanimate objects?”

“Nothing is wrong. I just--” she hesitates. Out of all her companions, she probably likes Dorian the most, but she is always wary of sharing too much. “It’s too big in there.”

“Big?” He raises a perfectly manicured brow. “You and I have very different definitions of the word.”

“You know what I mean,” she says. “It’s lonely.”

“ _You’re_ lonely?” he asks, grinning. “You might be less lonely if you’d stop telling people to ‘fuck off’. I think Solas is still reeling from that, by the way. You should do it again. I rather enjoyed it.”

Lumen bites her lip in an attempt to keep from smiling at the memory. Perhaps she ought to apologize to Solas, but perhaps he ought to learn how to mind his own damn business. He’d been pressing her on the subject of her Voice _again_ , calling it magic and so on. So _maybe_ she told him to ‘fuck off’, and just _maybe_ she allowed some of the _Thu’um_ to seep into her words. Not enough to harm anyone, but just enough to make the ground shake. Solas got the message, at least.

“Yes, I’m lonely,” she grumbles. “Being thrust into another world is bad enough, but the forced celibacy is killing me.”

“None of Cullen’s soldiers are kinky enough to defile the blessed Herald of Andraste?” he asks, laughing. “I would, of course. Think of the scandal! Unfortunately, you lack the proper parts.”

“Damn my luck,” she says, feeling instantly cheered by Dorian’s teasing. “I guess I’ll just have to suffer.”

“If it’s any consolation, you suffer beautifully.”

“Well, thank the gods for small favors.” Lumen sits down on the small stoop outside the front door. “Do you need something? Most people don’t talk to me unless they need something.”

“There are a great many things I am in need of,” Dorian says, dusting off the wooden stoop before sitting down next to her. “But I thought, perhaps, you might need someone to talk to.”

“Thanks,” she says, albeit uncertainly. “I was afraid I might scare you off with my lack of social graces.”

“It’s not that you lack them. You just don’t care. There’s a difference, yes?” A thoughtful frown crosses his features before it gives way to a smile. “Although, you should have a care when talking to Josephine. I’d hate for the poor dear to go prematurely gray.”

“It’s a tragedy in the making.”

Dorian’s cheeky smile fades into something more warm. More genuine. “All joking aside, how are you doing?”

“Well, aside from being lonely and sexually frustrated, I’m just peachy,” she says, her voice a little more caustic than she means it to be. “You’re miles away from-- uh, wherever you’re from--”

“Tevinter.”

“Yeah. That place.” Lumen coughs awkwardly. “Anyway, you’re a stranger in a strange land, and I’m sure you’re doing just as well as I am. The last thing I want to do is spend my night bitching and moaning about problems that I can’t fix.”

“I came here by choice,” he says. “You didn’t. You probably didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

“You’re right. I didn’t,” she sighs, running her hand through her hair. “I hardly remember what I was doing the day I was brought here. I want to say I was home, but now I don’t know anymore. It’s all fuzzy. But I suppose being pulled from one world to the next will scatter your memories a bit. I just wish I could manage to piece them back together.”

“Maybe someday you will.” He nudges her with his elbow. “Or _maybe_ you could apologize to our resident Fade expert and see if he can help. He’s always going on about sneaking into memories or dreams and seeing all kinds of useful things. Maybe he could help you piece yours back together.”

“I still don’t understand how this Fade shit works.” Although she does wonder if Solas could help. She doesn’t necessarily know what to make of him or the Fade, but it might be worth a try. If she can figure out how she got here, then maybe she can figure out how to go home. Of course, that does mean she’ll have to apologize to Solas, which will be difficult and humiliating, because she’s not in the least bit sorry.

“Well our favorite fashion-challenged apostate completely understands how this _Fade shit_ works,” Dorian says, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Ask him.”

“I’ll think about it,” she says, wrinkling her nose at the very idea of going to Solas and asking for a favor. It would be easier if she could just open a rift and pull people through. It’s not Skyrim she misses, but the Brotherhood.

“Let me know what you decide to do,” he says. “I’d love to watch you grovel at his dirty feet.”

“I’m not going to grovel.”

“Ah, you say that now. But I wonder how you’ll react when he tells _you_ to fuck off.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?” she asks, grinning. “You’re supposed to build up my confidence!”

“I’m being realistic.”

“Besides, Solas would never curse like that,” she says. “He’s far too prudish and proper.”

“I’m sure he would deliver the insult in flawless Elven--”

“Which I can’t understand a word of. So it wouldn’t matter.”

“You may not understand the words, but you’ll understand the tone.” Dorian winks at her before standing up and dusting off his trousers. “Come on, Herald. If we’re going to continue our conversation, I’d prefer we did so in the tavern.”

“Fine,” she says, taking Dorian’s offered hand and getting to her feet. “But let’s talk about something that doesn’t involve the Fade or groveling.”

“I was hoping you might tell me _who_ you’re missing so much,” he says, all while giving her a knowing look. “He or she must be quite remarkable.”

“I never said--”

“Oh, sweetheart, I can tell. If you were truly interested in nightly company, you’d have it. But there’s a good reason why you sleep alone every night, and that reason is that some unfortunate fool has stolen your cold, husk of a heart.”

Lumen breathes a soft, exasperated laugh at that. “Well, you’re right about the ‘unfortunate fool’ part…”

“Come on, then,” he says, offering his arm. “I’m all ears.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian has got to be one of my favorite companions in DA:I. I like them all for various reasons, but he's definitely my fave.
> 
> For those of you who are also following my Causa Mortis fic, I promise I am working on the next chapter. I just had a little burn out with it, but this drabble fic has helped me get back into the groove. :)
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

“Good morning, Solas.”

Solas squeezes his eyes shut, hoping against hope that the voice behind him is nothing more than a figment of the Fade, and that he is still dreaming. But that is a foolish hope, because every aspect of the waking world is settling over him like a heavy cloak. He can feel the snow softly caressing his skin as it falls from the sky. He can smell it on the breeze, and he can feel the tremulous turning of this broken world. He can ignore how slow the world moves, and how heavy the air feels. But he cannot ignore the Herald. He cannot treat her as if she is nothing more than an impetuous spirit seeking his attention.

“Herald,” he says. His tone is cold, but courteous. It is more than she deserves. 

He can hear her shuffle behind him. Shifting her weight from one foot to another while she considers her words. He’s seen her do this before when speaking with the others. After spending so very long in the Fade, he’s taken the time to observe the waking world and the people inhabiting it, picking up on their habits and their nervous ticks. People give so much away, even when they are saying nothing at all.

She is _nervous_. 

Despite his irritation with the brash, callous elf, he _will not_ add to her anxiety. So he turns around to face her, and _again_ he is amazed that she is as tall as he. It should not be a notable thing, but she is so different compared to the elves of this world, and he cannot help but notice it again and again.

“I’m, uh--” she heaves a frustrated sigh, twisting a length of auburn hair around her finger. “I’msorryIyelledatyou.”

“Pardon?” he asks, trying not to smile at the flimsy apology. “I didn’t understand you.”

Lumen frowns. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“All is forgiven, Herald,” he says warmly. “Do not worry about--”

“You deserved it, though!”

“Then I retract my earlier statement.”

“You _pry_ ,” she says, undeterred by his tone. “If you’re going to interrogate me, then you can at least do it out of earshot of the others. There are some things they just wouldn’t understand.”

“But I will?”

“Maybe,” she says as she begins to circle him. _Circle him!_ As if she is the wolf and he is the prey. “You pry and you assume, and your assumptions about my ability to Shout are all wrong.”

He turns as she circles him, his eyes meeting her gaze. Whatever this challenge is, he will not back down. “Then correct me, Herald,” he says. “I am faced with something that I have never seen before. I am curious, and I can only guess as to the source of this power. You know the answer, but you refuse to give it. Why?”

She finally stops, and he is not so foolish to think she has given up. She has him _exactly_ where she wants him. He is backed into a corner so he cannot easily wield his staff to defend himself. A lesser man would never have noticed, but a smarter man would never allow himself to be so easily pushed into such a precarious position.

“I have seen what Templars do to mages. I have seen how the others react to blood magic--” she hesitates, the tips of her fingers stroking the hilt of the dagger strapped to her hip. “I fear what they might try to do if they knew the source of my power.”

“As long as the source of your power isn’t drawn from blood magic or demons, I doubt our companions would care.” He tries to ignore the curiosity clawing at the back of his mind. He _craves_ knowledge, but he would have to be patient if he is to gain her trust. Trust is such a tenuous, fragile thing. But it is such a powerful tool. Especially when it is in _his_ hands.

She finally smiles, but it is a small and fleeting thing. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Is there a type of magic that can take away someone’s spirit?” she asks. “Not like Tranquility, but-- when you kill someone or something, is there a way to pull their soul from their body?”

“Not to my knowledge,” he admits.

And so she tells him of spells and enchantments designed to tear the soul from a living creature. She tells him which souls are considered acceptable and which are not. She tells him of soul gems, explaining the different types and their varying uses. He is horrified to think that upon his death, someone could tear his very spirit away from his body and use it to enchant something as mundane as a sword! What kind of a mad world does she come from? What kind of gods would sit idly by and allow mortals to have such power?

“What does this have to do with your power?” he asks. “Are your Shouts fueled by souls?”

“By dragon souls,” she says. “When I kill a dragon, it’s soul becomes one with my own.”

“How many have you killed?”

“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “I lost count.”

She is lying, but he doesn’t care to call her out. Instead, he wonders if he could’ve used such a power source to fuel the Foci. Of course, he would have never even heard of such a thing had his Foci not been… Misplaced.

“I would prefer it if this stayed between you and I,” Lumen says quickly. “It’s difficult enough for people in my own world to comprehend. I’d hate to break the minds of the people here.”

“I can keep a secret,” he says, because he used to deal in secrets, long, long ago. He knows when to keep his mouth shut and when to let it run. This, though, _this_ will remain locked away. Kept safe and only pondered upon for his own amusement. Because it _is_ amusing to think that the elf the humans have raised so high has the soul of a dragon and bears _his_ mark.

“Thanks,” she says, although she doesn’t sound the least bit grateful. “Now you can stop pestering me about it.”

“It was not my intention to be a pest, I was merely--”

“I need a favor,” she says quickly, not caring that she cut him off.

He breathes a soft laugh, finally understanding why she chose to divulge the information she’d been so fiercely protecting. “You’ve already played your hand in this game,” he says. “How can you be so certain that I will help you?”

“This isn’t a game!” The magic of her mark flares, green tendrils curling around her fingers and up her arm before dissipating in the cold, morning breeze. “I gave you information because you’ve been seeking it, and I thought you would be able to understand it better than anyone else. After all you’ve done for me, it seemed fair.”

“Fair,” he says, allowing some bitterness to seep into the word. There is no such thing as ‘fair’. _Fen’harel_ knows that better than most. 

“I never told you what I saw in Redcliff,” she says, unaffected by his sudden shift in mood. “What Dorian and I saw.”

“I read the reports,” he says, regaining some of his composure.

“The reports left some things out,” she says, her eyes meeting his. “You died for me.”

For the first time in a long time, he is struck silent. He would die to right all his wrongs, and to fix his mistakes. But he would not die for _her_. He would not give his life for this quick-tempered, fool of an elf. An elf that has no love and no loyalty to this world. But he sees no reason to tell her this. Let her believe that he is honorable and good, and that he would die for her in a future that will never come to pass. It has already worked out in his favor, and perhaps it will again.

“That future will not happen, _da’len_ ,” he says calmly. “You owe me nothing.”

“There aren’t many people in this world who would give their lives for me, and I don’t take it lightly,” she says quickly, before changing the subject. “What does _da’len_ mean?”

“It means ‘little one’ in the common tongue,” he says, preferring to answer her question rather than acknowledge what she said before. There is no reason to.

Lumen snorts. “Are you calling me a child?” she asks, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

Solas smiles softly. “In so many words,” he says. “Now, what is this favor you need?”

“Oh, right.” She runs her hand through her hair, stalling for a moment. “I still can’t remember how I got here, or what happened when I came through the Breach. My memories-- well, it’s not even like they are scattered. They are just _gone_.”

“It is not unusual,” he says, leaning on his staff. “Shock will often relieve us of our memories. Sometimes it’s better not to have them at all. But I do understand why you are concerned. What I don’t understand is what this has to do with me.”

“You’re always talking about sleeping in ruins and revisiting old memories,” she says, some of her usual acerbity creeping back into her voice. “I was wondering if you could help me find mine.”

“I could try,” he says. “I do not know what we will find, if anything. But I will look for you in the Fade, and together we can try to piece together the remnants of your memories.”

“You could try not to look so happy about it. I think this is going to be a terrible experience.”

“We will not know until we try,” he says, offering her a small smile before turning to step inside his house. “I will search for you tonight.”

“Thanks Solas,” she says with a sigh. “It’s been weird.”

“Oh, Lumen?” he pauses in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. “Avoid the tavern tonight. You will need to be sober for this.”

The Herald only groans and turns away, muttering something about ‘the perils of sobriety’ as she walks out of his sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I REALLY like writing Solas because he's a fascinating character. There are shades of Dark!Solas here, but I hope it isn't overwhelming. I don't want to paint him as good or evil. I see him as a very conflicted character.


	7. Chapter 7

A bright green flame flickers in the palm of Lumen’s hand, casting a murky, undersea glow all around her. The magic of the mark is easier to bend in the Fade, and it seems to be the only thing she can control in this wretched world of dreams. She’s still trapped in the same formless space as before. But spending night after night in the most boring, recurring dream _ever_ has given her plenty of time to study her mark and the magic it grants her. 

Lumen wonders if Solas will be able to recover her memories at all. She certainly hopes so. But her true reason for inviting him into her dreams is so he can release her from this strange, inescapable dream. She just didn’t want to explicitly ask him to do so-- she didn’t want to seem weak. Perhaps it’s a bit arrogant to think that she can use him as she has used so many others, since he can see through her lies so easily. 

She can’t lie to a liar.

Despite her lingering wariness of said liar, she’s depending on him to find her. It’s exhausting to keep the Fade flame burning for too long, and when the light goes out, those hundreds of unblinking eyes come back. The Dragonborn isn’t afraid of much, but being stared at by a multitude of eyes is a _little_ disconcerting.

The darkness around her shifts, and she watches in rapt attention as the Fade becomes something eerily familiar. Suddenly there is ground beneath her feet, but it is blackened and charred from an explosion so intense that it fused bodies to the ground. A giant rift rages in the sky, spewing out demons and bursts of energy.

“This is--” she gasps when she sees a woman fall from the rift. It’s not just any woman-- it’s _her_. “This is _not_ my memory,” she finally says, hoping the words will offer some comfort, but she finds none.

“This is my memory.”

Lumen gasps and whirls around to see Solas standing behind her. “I don’t have any memory of this.”

“I would be surprised if you did,” he says, using that know-it-all tone of voice that grates on her so much. “You had just been dragged through the Fade, from one world to another, and thrust into the heat of battle.”

“Why are you showing me this?” she asks, watching as her memory-self Shouts at Cullen. It’s a wonder she didn’t kill him. 

“Because you need to see it,” he says. “You need to understand why they fear you, and you need to make amends for it.”

“Oh, I need to, do I?” she snarls, filled with the need to be contrary for the sake of it. “Shouldn’t the Inquisitor be feared?”

“Don’t be a fool, Lumen,” he says, a feral growl lacing his words as he turns to face her. “You need them to trust you, to be willing to fight and die for you. Like it or not, you are the one with the mark, and you are the only one who can seal the rifts. In sealing the rifts, you just might find your way home.”

She turns away from him to watch his memory, not knowing what to say. She sees herself plea with her fellow elf, hoping he might show more intelligence than the humans. But rather than help, he sends a bolt of magic screaming through the air, hitting her right in the chest and knocking her out. That certainly explains why her body ached when she woke in the prison cell. It’s a wonder she survived such a hit.

“You _dick_!” She swats his arm, prompting him to stumble away in shock. “You could’ve killed me!”

Solas levels her with a glare as he rubs his arm. “For what it’s worth, you were trying to kill _all_ of us.”

“So?” She folds her arms as a cold breeze whips through her hair, the scene changing with the winds. The dark, depressing crater that had once been the location of the ill-fated conclave turns into one of Haven’s picturesque sunrises.

Solas heaves a long suffering sigh. “I had lost hope when the Breach formed,” he says, forcing his voice to be calm as he shifts the subject of their conversation away from violence and to something he’s more comfortable with. “I thought there was no power in existence that could stop it from growing. But then you appeared. _You_ \-- with your strange powers and your mark.” He turns to face her when he says, “ _You_ changed everything.”

Lumen cannot place the strange look in his eyes or the tremor in his voice. It could be sadness. It could he hope. Or it could be something far more _stupid_ than either of those emotions. What she does know is that he’s standing just a little too close, and he’s looking at her just a little too intensely for her liking.

“If you try to kiss me I _will_ cut you.”

He barks a laugh of confusion. “I would sooner kiss a charging druffalo. I would live through that experience, at least,” he says, taking a polite step away from her. “My apologies. I am more comfortable in the Fade and I tend to get carried away with my thoughts.”

She wants to argue that personal space is just as real in the Fade as it is in the waking world, but she decides to drop the subject. “So you can show me your memories,” she says, glancing around at his memory of a beautiful sunrise. “But what about mine?”

“That is more complicated,” he admits. “It took a bit of effort to find you. I wasn’t certain if you could experience the Fade as a mage does since you are from another world and definitely not a trained mage. However, I find it curious that you so vehemently deny having any magical ability when you so obviously do.”

“ _Everyone_ in my world has some magical ability,” she snaps. “Some use it and some don’t. I’m terrible at casting, so I just don’t do it. Now, can we get back to the subject of my memories?”

“Everyone can use magic?” he asks, while a sad, almost wistful look flickers across his features. “Truly?”

“It’s not a big deal,” she says quickly. “Anyone can pick up a spell book and learn how to summon fire or ice. But just because you can light a few candles with a flick of your wrist doesn’t mean you stand out from the rest. And _no one_ gets locked up in a tower and guarded by drug-addled thugs on the off-chance that they might fall prey to demonic possession.”

“You come from a world where magic is commonplace and mages are free,” he breathes, almost disbelieving.

“Can we get back on subject?” she asks, uncomfortable with the raw emotion in his voice. “My memories…”

“Oh, yes, of course. I do think I can help you, but since you are only connected to the Fade through your mark, and through _me_ at the moment, I may not be able to pinpoint the exact memories of what sent you to Thedas in the first place.”

“Okay,” she says, drawing the word out. “So what does that mean?”

“It means that I need you to concentrate,” he says, clasping his hands behind his back and regarding her carefully. “I should warn you that we could step into _any_ memory.”

Lumen sighs, knowing what he’s implying. They could stumble in on anything, no matter how private or how depraved. She has a lot of memories she doesn’t want anyone to see-- especially Solas. But she will have to take a chance if she wants to find out how she got here, and how to get home.

“All right, Solas,” she says, finally giving in. “Do what you need to do.”

He takes her marked hand, holding it tight as the green light flares. She struggles against the insistent pull of the Fade. It’s not in her nature to submit, or to give in. It’s even more difficult to allow her memories to be plundered and picked through. But just as she is prepared to wrench her hand from Solas’ grip, to tell him to find another way because this is too much, _too painful_ , the Fade shifts and bends, and then she is no longer in the Fade-- she is _home_.

Later she will make Solas explain exactly how this works. She wants to know how just a small manipulation of her mark could pull images from her mind and bring them to life all around them. She wants to know how she could be standing inside the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, the scene so real, she can smell the herbs boiling in Babettes alembic. She wants to know… if she’s honorbound to kill Solas for laying his uninitiated eyes on the Night Mother.

She probably is, but it is not a concern for long, because soon that memory dissolves and forms into another, and another. The images from her life flicker in and out of sight like a guttering flame in a strong wind. When she finally thinks she can force the memory to remain for their perusal, it flutters away.

“Concentrate,” he says, squeezing her hand tighter when she tries to pull away. “You must focus, Lumen.” 

“I’m trying,” she says, even though they both know she’s doing a piss poor job of it. “This is really fucking weird!”

“Try harder!”

Lumen yelps when a new, unwanted memory surfaces. A not-so-distant memory of Alduin bearing down on her, his red eyes blazing, and a foul, acrid smoke billowing from his nose and mouth. The terror she felt then is like a physical presence now. It is far easier to recall her fear than to remember the triumphant swell of victory she felt when the dragon finally fell. But just like the others, the memory is gone as quickly as it came. The Fade swirls around them, stirred by her power and by his. It is hard to breathe, hard to think-- and just when Lumen is ready to call the whole thing off, the Fade falls silent and still.

The memory brought forth is less distant, but still unclear. Most of the scene around them is cast in deep, murky shadows, but she can see herself clearly enough. She watches her memory-self walks through what she knows is her bedroom, but the details just aren’t there. Obviously, she wasn’t meant to remember what happened, which is a frightening thought. Who or what wanted to hide this from her? It’s such a mundane memory of a typical evening at home. Her memory-self runs her fingers across the collection of books on her bookshelf, before finally heaving a frustrated sigh and turning to rifle through a nearby chest only to pull out a large book.

The book is not just any book; it’s the Oghma Infinium. She’s toyed with the book over the years, always wanting to glean some more knowledge from it’s pages, but always wary of the toll such knowledge would take on her mind. It’s never done anything strange, though. It is not like the Black Books which pulls the reader into Hermaeus Mora’s realm, but that night… something _different_ happened. She doesn’t know what exactly, because the memory is growing darker by the minute, but before it winks out entirely, she hears the distinct, dulcet tones of Hermaeus Mora calling her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to poke a little fun at that scene with Solas in the Fade. I know it happens after Haven, but since this is an AU/crossover thingie I assume I am allowed to mess with the timeline a little bit. Call it "artistic license" or something. XD 
> 
> Sorry for the delay in posting! I hope you all are still with me! <3 And I want to apologize for any typos or errors that you may come across. I'm doing my own proofreading and sometimes I just miss things.


	8. Chapter 8

Lumen paces around her small cabin, lighting a few candles before throwing her sweat-soaked nightshirt into the corner. Her dreamtime walk through the Fade left her in a cold sweat, but she’s too wound up to worry about getting properly dressed at the moment.

She’d had very little to do with Hermaeus Mora in the past. Her sole encounter with him happened after reading the Oghma Infinium. That was the first and last time she ever dealt of the Daedra. Clearly, she had underestimated his reach and his power. If he is responsible for throwing her into this world, one would think he would at least allow her to retain her memories so she could at least know why. What does he need her to do? Because she’ll gladly perform whatever task necessary if it means she can just go home.

A knock at her door startles her out of her brooding. “Hang on,” she says, scrambling to pull on a tunic and some trousers. She does not care for titles and propriety, but she supposes the Herald of Andraste shouldn’t entertain visitors in nothing but her smallclothes. Unless, of course, said visitor is trying to get _into_ her smalls. That would be different, and a decidedly welcome distraction at this point.

She finds a very concerned Solas standing just outside her door, and all thoughts of a late night rendezvous quickly leave her mind. “Solas,” she says, purposely keeping her tone light. “Coming for a visit in the middle of the night? People will talk about the Herald and her apostate lover.”

“I have no care for gossip,” he snaps, pushing his way into her cabin and shutting the door behind him. “What was that voice in your memory?”

Lumen sighs. “I can tell you who it was, but I cannot tell you why he spoke to me or why he sent me here.”

“Who is he?” 

“Hermaeus Mora,” she says, resuming her restless pacing. “He’s what we call a Daedra. He’s a like a god, I guess. Or a demon. I’m no expert on the subject, all I know is that his realm of Oblivion is supposed to be an endless library where all forbidden knowledge can be found.” 

“What was that book?” he asks, watching her pace. Solas stand perfectly still, exuding a calm manner that most people in Thedas don’t seem to exhibit when one is talking of demons and forbidden magic. 

“It’s--” Her first inclination is to lie for the sake of lying, but Solas would see right through it. He is not so stupid to think that she sought that book out innocently. “It’s a Daedric artifact. One of Mora’s artifacts to be exact. It’s a tome of knowledge and it grants the reader access to it’s energy, but I’ve never had much luck with it. It usually gives me a headache.”

“Are you saying the book has never done what it’s supposed to do, but the last time you opened it, it spoke to you and sent you into another world?”

“This counts as a headache,” Lumen grumbles. “An extreme, never-ending, shitty headache. Complete with hallucinations. Perhaps I am actually at home and in bed, and this is all a fever dream. What do you think?”

Solas pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly losing patience with her. “Do you truly have no idea why he sent you here?” he asks. “And be serious. _Think_ for once.”

“I assume he sent me here to fulfill some kind of task. That’s what Daedra usually require of people, but I have no idea what he wants me to do,” she snaps. “He probably wants me to fix that stupid hole in the sky.”

“I need more than assumptions, Lumen,” Solas says, his tone a little too testy for her liking. “Are you certain you don’t know anything more?”

“Yes, I am sure.” She comes to a stop in front of the hearth, pausing her pacing long enough to stoke the waning fire. “Goodness, but you are _grumpy_ when you first wake up. No wonder you’re single.”

“Perhaps this requires more Fade exploration,” he murmurs, ignoring her comment.

“No,” she says. “I don’t want to do that again. My memories are private and they are not free for you to pick through.”

“Your inability for focus on a single moment in time is not my fault,” Solas sniffs, holding his chin a little higher. “You only need more practice.”

“I said no! You already saw more than you needed to!”

“You needn’t worry,” he says, obviously trying to be patient with her even though he’s nearing his wits end. “If this has anything to do with the vision of the corpse within a shrine, consider it forgotten.”

All of her muscles go tense as Solas’ casual mention of the Night Mother. The Inquisition and Thedas be damned, she is the Listener first and foremost. For anyone who is not Brotherhood to gaze upon the Night Mother and _live_ is unheard of. But he saw her from the Listener’s own memory, and the ancient tomes of sanctuaries past don't exactly cover what to do in this situation.

Lumen just shakes her head. Some of her earlier anger is ebbing away, but that doesn’t mean she’s open to Solas sticking his nose into her most private moments and thoughts. “I appreciate your help, but all the same, I’d rather not,” she says, trying to be as polite as she can. The elf always seems to be more agreeable if she attempts to show him the same courtesy. “I’d prefer to spend my nights sleeping, rather than exploring the Fade. I'll leave that to you and you alone.”

“Very well,” he says, finally conceding to her wishes. “I will not push the subject if it’s something that you are uncomfortable with.”

“Good.”

An awkward silence passes between them. Outside, the birds are beginning to sing, their sweet song heralding a new day.

“I shall take my leave,” Solas says, tugging at his cloak. “Unless you think it would be scandalous for me to be seen leaving your home before dawn?” 

“Are you hoping I’ll invite you to stay?” She knows when someone is joking simply to ease the mood, but Lumen cannot resist an opportunity to tease her fellow elf. If anyone needs to lighten up, it’s Solas.

“I-- That’s not--” he stammers, completely caught off guard by her remark. 

“Don’t get your smalls in a twist,” she laughs. “I’m joking.”

“Which is what I was trying to do,” he says, grinning in spite of himself. “Well played.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now, go on.” She pushes him toward the door. “And if you happen to be seen, well… I think the little town of Haven could do with a good scandal, don’t you?”

He breathes a laugh at that. “I don’t want to be around when Cassandra hears of it,” he says, pulling open the door and stepping out into the frigid pre-dawn air. “Good day, Herald.”

Lumen pushes the door closed, her feigned good humor leaving a sour taste in her mouth. All joking aside, the fact that a Daedra is directly involved with her being in Thedas is no laughing matter. Hermaeus Mora isn’t the worst of the Daedric gods, but he’s not exactly a trustworthy one either. It’s only a matter of time before she finds out what he wants from her. 

She hopes it happens sooner rather than later, because then she will be one step closer to going home. This strange world is going to push her to the brink of insanity. She’s so homesick it hurts, and she’s so desperately lonely even Solas’ company is almost enjoyable-- which is a sure sign of her faltering mental state.

That does it. When morning finally comes she’ll gather her companions and get out of Haven for a while. There’s a brand new world out there for her to explore, and if Mora has sent her to Thedas to gather knowledge or _whatever_ , then she’d better get started.


	9. Chapter 9

“I’d say this place is aptly named.” Lumen pulls the hood of an oiled leather cloak over her head. The Storm Coast is living up to its reputation. The gloomy, grey sky has been unleashing a torrent of rain down on her and her companions for hours. “I’d be thoroughly pissed if this place was named the Sunshine Shore.”

“I’m surprised it isn’t,” Solas comments. “Ferelden humor tends to run a bit dry.”

“Oh, that was _dreadful_ ,” Dorian says, his voice smooth and warm, a stark contrast to the weather. “I loved it.”

“Hurry up,” The Iron Bull says, trying in vain to stifle a laugh. “You can joke about the weather later. We’ve got a dragon to kill!”

Making their way down to the shore is a bit precarious thanks to the rain and the possibility of mudslides. Even though this was her idea, Lumen had wanted to the wait the storm out. Bull would hear none of it. The prospect of killing a dragon was thoroughly more interesting than spending the day in a tent.

“Look, I’m not the most sure-footed of my kind,” Lumen says as she follows behind Bull, desperately trying to find her footing on the sodden ground. “Can we slow down? That dragon isn’t going anywhere and I am sure we can track it down if it does. They tend to be loud.”

“I thought all you elves were so nimble and quick,” Dorian comments. “Leaping from tree to tree, collecting nuts, and building nests...”

“You’re describing squirrels.”

“Am I? Ah, forgive me. I often get the two confused.”

“Ass.” Lumen grins at him. “You’d better be nice to me, or else we’ll use you as bait.”

Dorian gasps in mock affront. “You wouldn’t dare!”

Thier playful spat ends when they reach the shore, where they find their dragon… _fighting a giant_. It’s not the first time Lumen has seen something like this; dragons and giants are commonplace in Skyrim and they often get into fights. Her companions, however, are not accustomed to such things.

“That is fucking badass!” Bull roars. 

Dorian heaves a sigh. “Is it too much to hope they kill each other off?”

“Yes.” She looks Dorian over, before turning her attention to Solas. “Your clothes are dry.”

“An astute observation, Herald.”

“How? It’s pouring!” 

“A light barrier spell,” Solas patiently explains, ignoring Dorian’s pleas of _‘don’t tell her, it's more fun this way!’_ He looks away from her, watching the fight between giant and dragon with little interest. “I use the spell to protect against ambient magic. Turn’s out, it’s rather useful for staying dry as well. I could teach it to you, if you like.”

“Not a mage,” she says quickly. “Can’t cast.”

“As you say.” Solas says nothing else on the matter, but the smug tone of his voice and his little smirk only serve to rile her further, which is probably his intention.

Lumen turns her attention to the dragon. The sight is a bittersweet reminder of home, even though the dragons of Thedas are so very different from the dragons of Tamriel. The physical differences are numerous, but the most worrisome is that the dragon’s roars are just that! _Roars!_ No discernable words or effects! No nothing! This dragon may be nothing more than a mindless beast, fighting with the giant over something as mundane as territory. It may not even have a soul.

The ground quakes when the giant finally falls. The dragon wheels in the sky, circling the giant and reveling in victory. It doesn’t seem to care about the small group of onlookers, and turns to fly out across the raging waters of the sea.

“Your dragon is getting away, boss!”

“No it’s not!”

She darts across the beach before anyone can question her. Her feet pound against the pebbles and sending the smaller one scattering in her wake. There is a small part of her that says she’s crazy for doing this. But she _needs_ this. She desperately needs to face down a dragon to prove that she still can. She’s apart from everything that makes her whole. The Night Mother’s ethereal touch is so very far away. Even the air in this world is stale and slow thanks to the veil. Everything in this world is so _wrong_ , she just hopes fighting a dragon will make her feel right again.

**_“Joor Zah Frul!”_ **

The dragon cries out in rage and whirls around in the sky, diving toward the beach. Lumen tries to ignore how helpless she feels when she realizes Dragonrend has little to no effect on the dragon. When it lands, it does so willingly. It is not forcibly grounded, which will make the fight all the more difficult.

_“So it’s not immortal, then. Good to know.”_

Bull is beside her within a matter of seconds, a glint in his eye and his teeth bared in a feral grin. “Do you have a plan?” he asks. “I don’t mind improvising, mind you. I can just hit it until it dies if that’s what you want.”

“Wound the wings and then focus on the legs.” Lumen draws her blade, grateful that Dragonbane made it through the Rift along with her. She’d be lost without it. “Sever the tendons and slow it down, then go for the head. Most dragons have a soft spot between the eyes.”

“I’m on it!” Bull rushes toward the dragon with Lumen on his heels.

“Oh, they are far too pleased about this,” Dorian complains, while Solas throws barrier spells around the group.

“I’ve noticed,” comes Solas’ irritated voice.

The complaints of the mages fade away in the intoxicating thrill of battle-- not that the battle is going particularly well. The dragon breathes electricity and there is even a slight current running through its scales. The enchantments on Dragonbane are utterly useless against it. But the blade is still sharp and she is able to leave a wide gash on one of the forelegs, painting the grey, pebbled beach with a wash of blood.

Just when she thinks the dragon isn't quite the threat she initially thought, it _jumps_! Its massive tail tears through the air, catching Lumen in the stomach and knocking the wind out of her. She tumbles a few yards away, only stopping when she crashes into a bit of driftwood. She gasps for air, desperately trying to fill her lungs so she can gain her bearings, because the dragon is half-limping, half-flying toward her, and it does _not_ look happy.

Dorian buys her time when he hurls a fireball at the dragon, pulling its attention toward him instead. He is fast and fierce, more so than she ever thought. For all his self-depreciative comments about being a spoiled, Tevinter brat, he is a damn impressive fighter.

Solas is impressive as well, although she is loathe to admit it. He moves with a grace most would attribute to him being an elf, but she’s seen enough elves in battle to know the difference between what’s natural and what’s trained. He’s survived his fair share of fights. His grace has been hard-won and hammered into him through _years_ of fighting. She’d love to ask about those battles, but she doubts he’ll ever share. He holds onto his secrets as tightly as a miser clutches his purse.

She rushes back into the fray, heedless of her injuries. She hurts, but she has suffered worse pain from worse dragons. The Iron Bull savagely cuts into the dragon’s hind leg, staggering it. Its movements become frantic and sloppy and it viciously lashes out when they start to close in. Dorian and Solas hit the dragon with a wide range of spells, while Lumen approaches it with Dragonbane at the ready.

The dragon collapses to the ground in a moment of exhaustion and Lumen takes the opportunity to strike. Dragonbane plunges between the dragon’s eyes, the blade sliding in until it hits the back of the its skull. Lumen jumps to the ground and runs, hoping to put as much space between herself and the dragon as she can. She can usually hang on to her sword and ride out the death throes, but the dragon is fighting death with every ounce of strength it has left, and she has no desire to be tossed across the beach _again_. 

It takes the poor creature ages to die. Seconds bleed into minutes, and Lumen wonders if they’ll need to deliver another blow just to speed the process along. The dragons of her homeworld do not die easily, but she’s never had to put one out of its misery, either. Mercifully, the dragon breathes its last before she has to make that call.

“About time,” Lumen sighs, eager to embrace the power of a newly acquired dragon soul after all this time. 

“Well, that was dreadful.” Dorian scrapes something gooey and unidentifiable from his boot. “Let’s never do this again.”

Normally she would laugh. Normally she would be elated to have killed a dragon with the help of her friends. _Normally_ she would be adding a new soul to her collection. But there’s nothing. The corpse lays there, silent and still, taunting her with its very presence.

Solas comes to stand beside her, clearly expecting to see something. Weeks ago she told him about her ability to absorb dragon souls, and he is undoubtedly hoping to see a demonstration.

“The dragons here don’t have souls, do they?”

“It appears they do not,” he says irritably. “Was it worth risking our lives to find out?”

“Shove off.” She waves her hand dismissively, irritated that their effort was for naught. “You volunteered to come with us. I don’t want to hear any complaining.”

“I volunteered because I knew the Herald of Andraste would end up killing herself on a fool’s errand!”

“But I didn’t.”

“You are bleeding,” he says, sounding every bit like an annoyed healer.

“Oh, right. I think one of the spikes on its tail may have caught me.” She glances down at her torso, wincing a bit at how bad it looks. Her leather armor is shredded and covered in blood, and just looking at her injury makes her all the more aware of how much it hurts. “I don’t think it’s too bad. You know how these things are. They often look much worse than they really are.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps, exhaustion tearing away his ability to maintain his calm composure. “You need healing.”

“I don’t need it so badly that I’m going to strip down right here,” she snaps back, his sour mood proving to be infectious. “There are bandits and Venatori out here! I’d rather not fight them in my skivvies.”

Solas sighs, his irritation mounting. “Then let’s head back to camp before you bleed to death.”

* * *

Lumen quickly strips her armor off, leaving her trousers and breastband on for the sake of modesty-- not _her_ modesty. She has no qualms about stripping down in front of her comrades, but she doubts any of them want to see all she has to offer. Bull, maybe. But to be fair, he wants to see _everyone_ naked.

“Nice scars, boss.”

“Thank you, Bull,” Lumen says, dropping the remnants of her shredded under armor to the ground. 

The aforementioned scars wrap around her torso, and up along her back and shoulders. They are brutal tears that will never completely heal, because they were given to her by a god. But she doesn’t mind. The scars serve as a badge of victory, and she has no doubts that she’ll acquire a few more before she manages to fix the sky.

“Fasta vass, woman! Don’t you have any decent healers in your world?”

“I know a perfectly good healer, thank you very much.” She grins at him. “Are you saying you don’t like my scars, Dorian?”

“I suppose I can appreciate them, yet--” he waves a hand at her bound breasts. “These _things_ are ruining the view.”

Bull laughs. “Speak for yourself, Vint.”

Solas pushes past Dorian. “Hold this on the wound for a while.” He hands her a poultice. It is a mixture of strong-smelling herbs, wrapped in a cloth with a light frost spell placed on it. “I’ll heal it when some of the swelling has gone down.”

Lumen sits down near the small fire, allowing herself a moment to consider her companions. She is often disrobing around her companions back in Skyrim, usually because she’s been injured, but sometimes for more exciting reasons. It’s always interesting to gauge how one looks at her when she’s been stripped down. Cicero’s eyes often threaten to consume her, and Bull’s gaze is not so dissimilar, only it lacks that borderline insane devotion that the Keeper’s has. Solas sees her with the eyes of a healer, only paying attention to the nasty puncture left by the dragon and little else.

Dorian, however, has been looking at her much longer than she would expect. “So how did you come to acquire such an impressive collection of scars?”

“I fought a god,” she says. “I won.”

“Tell us about it,” Bull urges. “All great scars have great stories to go along with them.”

Lumen knows the Iron Bull does not know what to make of her. In all the various conversations they’ve had, he’s admitted that he’s not sold on her claim of being from another world. But he doesn’t care where she’s from as long as she can fix the hole in the sky. So he probably doesn’t believe she fought a god. Sometimes she doesn’t even believe it herself-- and she was there! She appreciates his skepticism, though. In a world where humans, elves, and even a few dwarves, are bowing at her feet and worshipping her like a god, it’s nice to have non-believers.

“Yes, do tell” Dorian says. “Varric is not here to regale us with his tales, so now the honor is yours.”

Lumen runs a hand through her hair. “Um, I’m not sure where I should start.”

“At the beginning, of course.”

Solas’ voice comes as a surprise. Even more surprising is how close it is. One moment, he is across the camp, washing his hands of the herbs that clung to his skin after he made the poultice. The next, he is at her side, removing the poultice and prodding at the wound with cool, willowy fingers.

“I guess that makes sense,” she says, tensing up at his touch and only relaxing when pulls away. “Right, the beginning-- um-- so there’s this god, right?”

“I guess we know why Varric is always telling the stories,” Dorian says, beaming with amusement. “What’s this god’s name, dear?”

“Alduin, the World-Eater. He destroys worlds, as his name would imply,” she explains. “His destiny was to destroy the world so that the next may exist, but I didn’t want the world to end, so I stopped him.”

“You stopped a god from fulfilling his destiny simply because you didn’t want him to?” Solas asks. The corner of his mouth quirks into a smirk, as if she’s said something deeply amusing. “You prevented a world from coming into existence on a whim?”

“That’s the abbreviated version of events, yes,” she says, considering her words carefully. “He’ll return one day, and that world will eventually happen. I just stalled it a bit.”

“Do you feel any remorse?” he asks. “That world could’ve been better than the one you saved. Why not let it happen?”

“I considered that, actually,” she admits. “But why destroy an existing world for one that has yet to happen? I didn’t exist before I was born and my nonexistence doesn’t trouble me. I’m sure the people of the next world won’t mind waiting a little longer.”

“That’s an interesting point of view.”

“Oooh, I have an idea. Maybe this world is the world you stalled and as punishment you've been thrown into the future to fix all our problems!” Dorian offers her a cheeky grin. “Serves you right!”

“Ugh. That’s a terrible thought,” she whines, cringing when Solas reaches for her again. “If you poke me one more time, Solas, I swear--”

“Hold still,” he snaps, setting the poultice aside. His hand hovers over the wound, warmth washes over her body as the healing magic knits her torn skin together. He lingers beside her for longer than strictly necessary, poking and prodding at the freshly healed skin. “How does it feel?”

“Better, thank you.” Lumen fishes a tunic out of her pack. She is eager to hide her body from view. Not that she’s ever been burdened by modesty, but she’d prefer it if the conversation could turn away from _her_ for a while. 

“I suggest we return to Haven at daybreak,” he says as he moves away from her to sit down near the fire. “You need to rest and avoid taking any unnecessary risks for a while.”

“I won’t argue with that.” She clasps her hand over the freshly healed wound as she stands, feeling the muscles tense painfully with just the slightest movement. “I’m going to stretch my legs,” she says, and at Solas’ irritated look she adds, “I won’t go far. I just need to move around a bit.”

“I’ll go with you,” Dorian says, quickly getting to his feet. “I could use a little more of this atrociously fresh air.”

No words pass between them as they leave the camp. Behind her, she can hear Solas and Bull getting deep into another one of their invisible chess matches. All around her are the sounds of birdsong among the rustling leaves. The air is crisp and cool now that the rain has finally stopped. It is almost pleasant enough to distract her from the constant itching of the Anchor.

“What do you want?” she asks. “Tromping around in a forest isn’t exactly your thing.”

“You wound me! Is it so wrong of me to want to spend a little time with you? Solas takes up so much of it, you see…” his voice trails off, and his mischievous grin only grows wider when Lumen frowns at him. “Oh. So it’s true? You and Solas _will_ be sharing a tent tonight?”

“What are you getting at?” she asks, utterly perplexed by his behavior.

“A little birdie told me Solas was seen leaving your quarters at an-- _inappropriate_ time.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, _that_.” Dorian steps closer to her, his voice pitched low. “The bald, apostate hobo thing doesn’t do it for me, but to each their own.”

She can’t help but laugh. “It’s not what you think,” she says. She never thought of Solas in _that_ way, and she’s surprised anyone else would even think the two of them together made sense! They are about a different as night and day. “He was trying to help me regain some of the memories I lost when I came through the breach. It’s not terribly exciting, unless you get excited about the Fade.”

“Oh, come on! You can tell me the truth.” He drapes his arm around her shoulders. “Our sweet, little town of Haven isn’t exactly a haven for juicy gossip! I’m positively aching to hear something scandalous!”

“I hate to disappoint you, but nothing scandalous has happened.”

“Well, maybe you ought to consider it. With the way you two bicker…”

“Leave it.” She grins in spite of herself. She doesn’t mind his teasing, but she’d rather not endure much more of it, either. “Who told you?”

“If I tell you then I won’t be privy to anymore gossip,” he says. “That would be a tragedy.”

“Was it Varric?”

“No.”

“Was it Bull?”

Dorian laughs. “You know he’s too busy with the tavern girls to care about what you get up to at night.”

“Ah,” she hums. “So it was Sera.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. It makes the most sense. Who else would be wandering around at that time of night? It helps that you have _tells_. When I said her name, your brow twitched.” She grins at him, pleased she figured it out so quickly. “This is why I’m always beating you at Wicked Grace.”

Dorian makes a pained noise. “I’m going to end up with something _worse_ than lizards in my bedroll.”

“No you’re not,” she laughs. “I’m not going to say anything to her.”

It’s hard to be angry with Sera for starting a rumor when she and Solas joked about it themselves. Besides, she genuinely likes Sera. The elf can always make her laugh, even when she’s the butt of the joke.

“Solas will be less amused when it finally gets around to him,” Dorian says with a grin. “But I expect he’ll only care if the spirits of the Fade start talking about it.”

Lumen shrugs. “I doubt spirits care much for the idle talk of the waking world.”

“You aren’t perturbed by this in the slightest, are you?” he asks, sounding impressed. “Something tells me you will play The Game quite well. Although, I hope you never have to.”

“A silly rumor isn’t anything to worry about,” she says. Because it isn’t and because the distraction of minor silly things, such as rumors or card games or _whatever_ give her a sense of home. Her family is so far away. It’s nice to feel like she’s a part of something in this strange, new world. “Let’s head back to camp.” She tugs on his sleeve. “Are you up for a game of Wicked Grace?”

“I am, but you have to promise to tell me when I am giving my hand away,” he says, sounding irritated even though his smile says otherwise. “I am tired of losing all my gold.”

“It’s a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to break this chapter up, so you get a long one! (Long in comparison to the others, at any rate.) I really dislike writing dragon fights, but I figured it was a good writing exercise. ;P The dragons in Skyrim are so easy to fight compared to the dragons of Inquisition, so I really wanted to have Lumen face one. It's got to be disappointing for the Dragonborn to deal with dragons who aren't these intelligent, immortal creatures they have come to know.
> 
> This chapter contains a wee spoiler for my Causa Mortis fic (ie: Lumen winning the fight against Alduin.) But I figured most people knew she'd live anyway. It would be pretty anti-climatic if I ended her story there. XD


	10. Chapter 10

She cannot mend her armor.

Perhaps it was foolish of her to think she could wear her old set of armor forever. But it isn’t as if she can just toss it aside. Arnbjorn made it specifically for her; a blend of the Dark Brotherhood leathers reinforced with dragon scales and accented with daedric pauldrons, gauntlets, and boots. It’s practically indestructible thanks to his craftsmanship and Luka’s enchantments.

Or, it _was_ practically indestructible.

That dragon ripped right through the leather, the enchantments weakened by the godsforsaken Veil that separates this world from the realm of magic. She never noticed how magic permeated every part of Nirn until she was removed from it. The air here is stale, the food is bland, and everything feels so… dead. Magic is such a huge part of her world, it’s not even noteworthy. No one is surprised when they come across an enchanted sword or something as basic as an ice-enchanted goblet. Things that would cause mass panic in Thedas are commonplace in Tamriel.

When she explained this to her companions the knowledge was met with a mix of horror and fascination. Solas, in particular, looked as if he was about to cry, Varric took notes, and Sera made retching sounds. Blackwall, however, had suggested she come down to the smithy and get kitted out in some new gear. Funny how something so sensible had not occurred to her. Perhaps it was nostalgia that kept her clinging to her old armor. It is all she has left of home.

So that’s how she finds herself following Blackwall and Sera down to the smith. She likes them both well enough. Blackwall reminds her a bit of Arnbjorn; good in a fight, great at scowling, and tons of fun when you get a few pints in him. Although there’s something in the way that he carries himself that makes her suspicious of him. He wears guilt like shackles around his feet, but she’s not stupid enough to ask him what he’s done— or what he thinks he’s done. Whatever it is, it’s his problem and she wants no part of it.

“When you’re all geared up I can run you through a few drills if you like,” he says. “New armor always needs time to be broken in and you don’t want to get into a real fight with stiff armor hindering your movements.”

“That would be great,” she says, grateful for his offer. “I’ve got a lot of tension to work off, anyway.”

He glances at her and she smiles at him in turn. She didn’t mean for that to sound like an innuendo, but she cannot deny that she is _tense_. She’s itching for a good fight or a good lay, and she would take both if she could get it. 

“Right, well—” he clears his throat. “Nothing a little exercise can’t fix.”

“Why so tense, Lulu? I thought you were _in it_ with Baldy,” Sera comments. “Does he cry out “Elven Glory” when he does it? I bet he does!”

“How would I know?” Lumen visibly cringes at the mental image that conjures. “I’m not “in it” with anybody! Trust that I would be in a much better mood if I was.”

Sera actually looks sympathetic upon hearing that. “It didn’t work out, eh? You not elfy enough to get ‘im hard?”

“I’m just going to pretend I’m not part of this conversation,” Blackwall says, although he doesn’t make any attempt to walk out of earshot.

Lumen snorts. “I have no idea what gets him hard.”

“What? That’s a bloody lie!” Sera rounds on her, her loud voice attracting the attention of the nearby soldiers. “I saw him leaving your cabin in the middle of the night! Don’t tell me nothing happened! That’s so boring!”

“All of Haven knows you saw him leaving my cabin, but _nothing_ happened,” Lumen snaps, then decides to change gears because once Sera is on a subject she’s like a dog with a bone. “Are you spying on me, Sera?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. You’re not interesting enough to spy on.” She wrinkles her nose. “Bit of a shame nothing happened, though— a shame for him. Not for you. You dodged a big, elfy arrow. Well, it may not be that big after all— _Whatever_. I just mean he’d probably be less of a tit if he loosened up. But you know what this means? It means we gotta find someone for you to squeeze up to. Can’t save the world if you’re all weepy lonely-heart, can you?”

“I—” she stammers, not quite knowing where to start. “I’m not weepy! I’m just—”

“Randy!” Sera cackles, slapping Lumen roughly on the back. “Bet we can find someone to help with that. Oi! Blackwall!”

“Do _not_ bring me into this.” Blackwall casts a stern glare at Sera. “The Lady Herald does not need your help or mine with this… Issue. It’s her private business.”

“Yeah. But you could dive headfirst into her private business if you play your cards right.”

“ _Maker_ , Sera,” he sighs, all while turning a rather interesting shade of pink.

“You’re both sweet, but I don’t need any help. I promise.”

“What did I tell you Sera? The Lady Herald has everything well in hand—”

Sera cackles. “In hand!” she says, snorting with laughter. “Oh, I just bet she does!”

A horrified laugh escapes her. “Is that the smithy? I think it is. Come on Blackwall!” Lumen grabs him by the wrist and drags him onward, leaving Sera to her giggles. “Walk faster. If she doesn’t give up, we can just talk about magic and demons for a while. That usually scares her off.”

She likes Sera. She really does. But there are times when her particular brand of humor is just _too much_ to deal with. As it turns out, a conversation about armor enchantments and soul gems is enough to dissuade Sera, and Lumen is able to spend the rest of the afternoon in relative peace.

* * *

Days later, and Lumen is leading a party through the Hinterlands. They have been clearing out all the Templars and mad mages they can find, but the real reason they are there is to hunt down the Venatori. The Venatori are tough, but The Iron Bull and Blackwall make short work of their warriors, while she and Dorian take out the rest.

“How does the new armor suit you?” Blackwall huffs, winded from a recent fight.

“It’s bulkier than I like, but it’ll do.” 

“Seems like you got used to it pretty quickly. You fought well.”

Lumen smiles at his words, uncertain of how to respond. Instead, she looks around at the once serene hillside. The pure, green grass now stained with blood and littered with corpses. Dorian and Bull are picking through the fallen, looking for loot and survivors. 

“Do we have any live ones?” she asks.

“All dead, Boss.”

“That saves me the trouble, I guess,” she murmurs, making her way over to Dorian, who is staring down at the corpse of a fallen Venatori mage. “Did you know him?”

“No,” he sighs, tearing his eyes away from the dead mage to look at her. “You’ve got a little blood on your face, dear.”

“Yeah, well, it happens when you fight with daggers.” She wipes at her cheek, wincing when she feels a twinge of pain. “Oh, damn. That’s _my_ blood.”

“Yes, that happens when you fight with daggers,” he mocks, gripping her chin to get a better look at her. “Do you want me to take care of it?”

“No.” She swats him away. “It’s not worth wasting magic on such a tiny thing. It won’t even scar.”

“Herald, I understand that it’s your face, but _I’m_ the one who has to look at you.” Dorian laughs when she swats at him, just narrowly dodging the offending hand. “At least clean up so you don’t attract any flies or blood mages, all right?”

“Fine, fine,” Lumen grumbles. 

The walk back to camp is a quiet one. For all of his good humor, _something_ is bothering Dorian. He’s been sullen the entire way back. At least Bull is filling the silence by singing a tavern song— Lumen can’t really hear it, but she thinks it might be a disturbingly rude version of “Andraste’s Mabari”.

“Lady Herald.” Blackwall appears at her side and passes a handkerchief to her. “Thought you could use this.”

She takes the cloth, looking it over before using it to wipe the blood from her cheek. “Do you keep these on you just in case you find a damsel in distress?” she asks with a grin. 

“Maybe.”

“You’re oddly charming for a man I found wandering around in the forest.” She gives him an appraising look. Broody heros aren’t really her type, she prefers those who aren’t ashamed of the blood on their hands, but she supposes the hero thing works well enough for Blackwall.

“I always thought myself more odd than charming,” he laughs. “But I’ll take a compliment from a lady.”

Lumen snorts. “You think I’m a lady? You were present for that conversation Sera and I had, yes? Would you like a recap?”

“No, I would not.” Blackwall grins at her, but quickly looks away. “Even so, I do think you’re a lady and you deserve you be treated as such.”

“Why, Blackwall. You flatter me.”

“I’m the one that’s flattered. That you would spend any time with me at all is—” he sighs, thinking better of whatever he had planned to say. “You’re unlike any woman I’ve ever met.”

“I would expect so,” she says, not liking the serious tone he’s suddenly taking. She often flirts because it’s fun, but it quickly becomes _not fun_ if it’s taken too seriously. “I don’t think anyone else in Thedas is capable of breathing fire.”

“I’m not entirely convinced that Cassandra can't.” He breathes a tired laugh. “Please don’t tell her I said that.”

“Do I look like I have a deathwish? I’m not telling her a thing!”

“Then I am in your debt, my lady.”

* * *

Dinner passes without incident (which is saying a lot considering Bull’s abysmal cooking skills) and sleeping arrangements are made. Bull tends to sleep outside, preferring not to get his horns caught up in the tent if he needs to move quickly. Which means Blackwall has a tent all to himself and Lumen is to share with Dorian.

Dorian has been stretched out on his bedroll and staring at the top of the tent for a half hour. It is dark, but Lumen can tell he’s not sleeping by his breathing. Too slow. Too indicative of a person in deep thought rather than a deep sleep.

“Something is troubling you,” she finally says. “You can talk to me, if you like.”

“You know, you are rather sweet for a madwoman who cackles while she disembowels her enemies.”

“I don’t cackle,” she says quickly. “And don’t change the subject.”

“I am touched. But you needn’t trouble yourself with my problems.”

Lumen rolls on her side, propping her head on her hand and giving Dorian the most fearsome glare she can muster. “Dorian,” she growls. “Listen up, because I am only going to say this once; _I like you_. So it’s no trouble if you need to bend my ear. I might actually be able to help.”

“You like me?” he asks, a hint of sorrow hiding behind his amused tone. “Truly?”

“Yes,” she says slowly. “You remind me of a friend I have back home. He’s a mage, too. You’re definitely more composed than he is, though. He’s about as nervous as a long tailed Khajiit in a room full of rocking chairs. But he’s sweet. I think you’d like him.”

“A long tailed _what_?”

“Tell me what’s troubling you and maybe I’ll tell you what a Khajiit is.”

“Oh, very well,” he says, but there is no annoyance in his tone. “I can tell I’m not going to get any peace until I give you what you want.”

“I’ll find new and exciting ways to annoy you until you do.”

Dorian heaves a long suffering sigh, a sure sign that she’s finally gotten through to him. “I didn’t know the mage we killed. His name is a mystery, but I— I knew his face. I’d seen him before. It’s only a matter of time before I start seeing more familiar faces with names that I’ve always held dear.” He glances at her, his voice carrying a trace of bitterness when he says, “This is where you’re supposed to tell me to have faith in my friends. Faith that they will stay true to our cause, rather than fall in with these Venatori rabble. Faith that they are not so easily swayed by promises of power.”

“You know your friends better than I do.”

He smiles, but it does not reach his eyes. “I do, and they aren’t really my friends are they? Trust is a dangerous thing and friendship is a cute concept, but it’s not something that truly exists in a place like Tevinter. Still, I would rather not kill them.” His tone lightens when he says, “Now, you owe me. What is a Khajiit? Am I even saying that right?”

“A Khajiit is like— well, you have cats here? Think of a person who is also a cat.”

Dorian stares at her for a few seconds, trying to process what she just said. “What?”

“They’re beastkin. They take different forms depending on what moon phase they are born under. But the ones I’ve seen are just like us, only they have cat-like traits. This is a horrible description and a Khajiit would find it quite offensive but… Think of a human with cat ears and a tail.”

“I would like to visit this world of yours,” he finally says. “It sounds fascinating.”

“It’s similar to Thedas, only the mages are free and the sky isn’t shitting demons.”

“Even better.” They both fall silent for a moment. Dorian fidgets with his bedroll, desperately trying to get comfortable, but his efforts are for naught. “Thank you for letting me ramble. I do feel a little better. I’ve never had someone I could just talk to aside from Felix. I guess this means we’re friends now?”

“If you like,” she says, grinning at him. “Would you rather be enemies?”

“Heavens, no! I’ve seen you fight! I’d like to stay on your good side.”

* * *

The group is quiet on the way back to Haven. Blackwall and Dorian excuse themselves upon arriving; Blackwall claims to be in need of a drink and Dorian in need of a bath. Which leaves Lumen and Bull alone in each other’s company.

She walks with him to the Charger’s campsite, which is situated just outside the gates. “Thanks for your help, Bull,” she says, taking a moment to marvel at his size.

“No need to thank me, you are paying me for my services,” he says, grinning. “Or, at least, your organization is.”

“Yeah, well.” She shrugs. “The money isn’t coming out of my pocket. So thanks, all the same.”

“No problem, Boss.” He stares at her for a moment, taking her in. “So… How does an assassin end up masquerading as the Herald of Andraste?”

“I—” She glances around, trying to think of a way to deny the accusation but thinking better of it. Bull _did_ tell her he was a spy when they first met. He’s good at reading people and it would be insulting to try to lie her way out of this one. “How did you know?”

He laughs jovially. “Every part of you practically screams what you are,” he tells her. “It’s the way you walk, the way you fight, and the way you watch people. You’re a predator. A wolf among sheep.”

“Yeah well, these are _my_ sheep,” she says, feeling defensive. “The people of Haven have nothing to fear from me. I haven’t assassinated a single person since I’ve been here.”

“But you’ve killed plenty of people.”

“They were trying to kill me first, so it’s not morally objectionable,” she says. “But for some reason, when I am paid to kill a man in his sleep, people get their knickers in a twist.”

“Most people want to die in their sleep,” he says, cracking a smile. “It seems like a peaceful way to go. Better than lingering and eventually dying of illness or infection.”

“How do you want to die, Bull?” 

“That’s an odd question.”

“Not to me,” she says, sitting down on the stump of a recently cut tree. “Besides, you can tell a lot about someone from their answer.”

Bull hums thoughtfully. “I think I would prefer dying in the midst of an orgasm or fighting a dragon. Or both at the same time.”

“Those are reasonable choices,” Lumen says, laughing softly.

“You’re not really here, are you?” He narrows his eye at her, still smiling as he looks her over. “I mean, you are here physically, but not mentally— and I don’t mean that like an insult, so don’t make that face at me. You’re miles away. Your head’s not really in the game. I’m not gonna tell you your business, but that’s dangerous, Boss. Dangerous for you, for me, for everyone.”

Her good mood vanishes as a wave of misery washes over her. “I want to go home,” she admits. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up and I’ll be home, and all this will just be a crazy dream.”

“A lot of people are thinking the same thing, the only difference is that you actually have a home to go back to. They don’t.”

“Is this your way of telling me to suck it up and get to work?”

“You said it, not me,” he says. “But you might want to heed your own advice. You recently stole the Venatori’s mages. Things have been quiet, but someone is going to retaliate. Can’t have your mind elsewhere when that shit comes raining down on us.”

“That’s some pretty sound advice,” she concedes.

“I’m good at a lot of things, Boss.” He looks to her, and she’s fairly certain he’d follow that up with a wink if he had use of his other eye. “Giving advice is just one of my many talents.”

“I’m curious as to what your other talents are.”

“Maybe someday you’ll find out.”

Lumen smirks at his flirtatious tone. “I look forward to it,” she says, pushing away from the stump. “See you later, Bull.”

These games are safe to play with Dorian, but with Bull? With him, subtle flirtations could quickly become promises, and she is not a fan of making promises she does not intend to keep. Not that Bull isn’t alluring in a very… giant, intimidating way. But Lumen rarely goes to bed with someone she does not trust. If she doesn’t trust someone, then she at least picks a lover she can easily control, and Bull is _not_ someone she could easily control. In fact, she’s fairly certain he would have her wrapped around his finger in no time, which doesn’t sit well with her at all.

“Don’t worry about it,” she tells herself. As lonely as she is, she’s got to worry about cultists and a hole in the sky. She doesn't have time to worry about finding someone to keep her warm at night. Still, she thinks it might be a good idea just to keep her flirtations limited to Dorian, because she will just end up breaking Blackwall’s heart and Bull will end up breaking _her_ if she’s not careful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been ages since I have updated this fic. I have a handful of half written drabbles for it, but I’m having a hell of a time actually finishing anything. Job stress, anxiety, and some recent health problems are really messing with my creativity lately.
> 
> Anyway, I’m one of those people who has their character flirt with eeeeeveryone, which means I “accidentally” initiate romances and have to break a few virtual hearts. Lumen is also a bit of a flirt, which gets her into all kinds of trouble, but it makes for fun writing. The point of this chapter was to get a feel for some characters I haven’t written much of; Bull, Blackwall, and Sera. It meanders around a bit, but I enjoyed writing it and I thought it was good enough to post.
> 
> Still undecided about what ships might sail in this fic. I can tell you that Dorian/Bull is not happening. It’s not my thing. I’m a fan of Dorian/Cullen, though. So there might be some shadows of that if I can get out of this low point and back into the swing of writing.


End file.
